Vertigo, without the heights

I am sorry I have not blogged too much of late. I have missed the feast of many great saints: St Bernard (the Patron of my new school), St. Rose of Lima, St. Bartholomew, Blessed Dominic Barberi, St. Monica, St. Augustine - the list goes on. The truth be told, I have not been up to much cooking or much feasting in recent times. I am home this weekend, and have made up for my loss of practice a little, working with Gemma, my twin, to produce a feast of fresh gnocci with walnut, parsley and basil pesto for dinner on Saturday, and making rosemary and sundried tomato foccacia as my contribution to a party today. These were good recipes, and I will share them here soon. I did not make them with a particular feast or saint in mind. I made them for my family and friends. Having said that, my family and friends ARE saints for putting up with me!!

I have been nervous for weeks. I start a new job this week. For most of the day I am absolutely fine. Then I remember, and I feel sick, like a wave of vertigo. Mostly this happens when I am most relaxed, cooking in the kitchen, for example. So, I have been keeping busy with other things, taking my mind off the inevitable, avoiding my own anxieties. I am frightened. My new post carries great responsibility. Every now and then I think, 'My God, there has been a terrible mistake. It cannot be me who should do this work'. But, it is. Everything through Him who strengthens me. Onwards. Then, nothing. Then, vertigo again. I have tried seeking inspiration, but so far no good. I am reckoning I am just going to have to trust and go.

All this has quite put me off my food. Things are not quite as bad as Jeremiah would have it in today's readings (Jeremiah 20: 7- 9), but then again the vision put forward by St. Paul seems like a very tall mountain to climb (Romans 12: 1 - 2). I am sure I will recover, and get some good recipes for saints up here soon. In the meantime, my adopted patron, St. James, is rather good when petitioned for courage, so I have been sticking by him. In many ways, it was him who got me into this position in the first place.

Smells, not bells.

Back in May, Andromedababe, who has a brilliant blog full of wonderful ideas and thoughts, made a list of 'happy smells'. These were the smells that made her want to fill her lungs, the smells that made her smile, comforting smells, the smell equivalent of a big fat hug.

Today, I was driving along the Iffley road with my sister and her three children. There were roadworks, and men laying hot tarmac. It stank. But, while the kids and I all held our noses and exclaimed, "eurgh!", my sister was very happy to drive along and breath the thickened air. She said afterwards, 'I quite like the smell of tarmac." I was reminded quite suddenly how personal, sensitive and emotional our sense of smell is.

Then, I got to thinking, what are my favourite smells; or more deeply perhaps, which smells am I aware of that evoke a change of emotion? What are my happy smells? The smells that bring me comfort. I was brought to the following list:

Rain dampened wool - either on a sheep, or when I walk around in my alpaca jumper in the rain.
Cat fur - on a cat. I always sniff a cat when I pick it up. Nice smelling cat, nice cat.
My Norwegian Woollen Blanket - the warmest pure wool blanket known to humanity - no matter where I am living, when that blanket is with me, the place smells like home.
After the rain in the summer - I always have to go outside to breath in!
Gale force wind on the North West Coast of Ireland - the breeze can knock you off your feet, but it is the closest thing to fresh air you will ever breath.
The sea
Bread rising - in the hotpress (airing cupboard)
Smoked Mackerel baking in an oven - as part of dinner
A whiskey filled room - when you first walk in and know that people are drinking
Red wine (ironic, I more often drink white)
Pipe tobacco
Mud, when you dig it in spring
Potatoes, when you dig them up
Woodfires / bonfires in the autumn
Walking late at night on bonfire night
A damp forest floor
Mushrooms cooking
A Church, the day after the incense
Candle wax
Polish on wood
Hair, when you have spent days and days by / in the sea
Someone else's jumper
The herb garden in the morning - Rosemary and Thyme are my favourites
Jasmine in the evening
Lavender crushed between my fingers
Sunflowers
Cut grass
Jean Paul Gaultier Perfume
An open fire
Snow, when you first open the door the morning after a late night fall

Thank you, Andromedababe for reminding me to think these out.

He walks in the garden

He walks in the garden,

through the trees

to admire the flowers lit by shafts of sunlight.

He walks in the garden,

leaving footsteps 

on the leaves fallen from the canopy.

He walks in the garden

to hear the birds sing

in the morning and the evening, feeding their young.

He walks in the garden still:

concrete, cars, factories, friction.

His footprints mark the land

that human hands have touched.

He never left the garden.

My kind of hairdresser

I needed to get my haircut. I do not like getting my hair cut. It freaks me out. All those scissors and combs look like torture devices to me. Ewww.

But, at last, I have found my kind of hairdresser. Here's how it goes. I went into the salon and said, 'Please can I have a haircut.' The man behind the desk said, 'Yes, would you like that done now?'. 'That would be good,' I said.

I sat down, and he said, 'What would you like?'

'I would like my hair to be shorter.' I responded. He laughed. 'Would you like it washed?' He asked.

'I just washed it,' I answered, 'but, you can if you like.'

'I'll damp it down for you,' he replied.

He cut my hair, and talked. His wife was doing a PhD in Theology. He was here to support her. He said she was 'the brains of the outfit'. I am not so sure, he seemed an intuitive kind of chap to me. He admired teachers - the usual polite banter, 'I don't know how you do it', etc, etc.

When he finished cutting my hair, he asked, 'how do you wear it?'

'All over my head, usually'. I answered. He scruffed it up a bit. 'How's that?'

'Great'. I said.

'That'll be £10', he said.

'Thanks,' I said.

If only all my haircuts were this simple. In fact, if only most exchanges I had in life were this simple. No nonsense. No fuss. Just doing the job that needs to be done. Simply marvellous. I am happy to have found my kind of hairdresser. :-)

The Assumption

I do not have much to say these days. The quiet of summer. The calm before the storm. But, today - this was beautiful - too beautiful for words.

The Stolen Child

I was brought up with this. But, lately, it has been in my dreams.

Horseman pass by

 Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman pass by!

WB Yeats

Walking from the Great Hall in the British Museum into the dark hallows of the 'Treasures of Heaven' exhibition a hush descends as if you have just stepped into a sacred space. In many ways, you have. The British Museum have begged and borrowed a remarkable and beautiful collection of reliquaries and relics, and aims to present them with some explanation as to their use in devotion in Medieval Europe. There is no doubt that the exhibition has been prepared with respect and care. And, it is beautiful. But, for me, standing before the reliquary of the 'Man of Sorrows', which still contained the relics of many holy men and women who had gone before, I could not help but feel that the icon was 'lost'. The chattering classes, in which I played a part, stood before the images and made appreciative comments about the artistry and craftsmanship of the 'object' created in 1300AD. I was uneasy. Before me was something created out of love, from love, for love. It was created to be looked upon with love, and to allow love to into the hearts of those who looked upon it. Yet, the environment in which it stood invited critique more than introspection - a cold eye.

Venerating relics of the saints is not the same as holding onto old photographs of loved ones, making a trip to see the desk Marx wrote on, or heading off to visit Elvis' homeland - as was implied by the video which bid adieu to visitors. Relics illustrate in the most powerful way, that there exists a Goodness worth seeking; a Goodness worth giving your life for. They are a promise that such Goodness is eternal. The communion of saints continually intercedes for people during their pilgrimage on earth. The veneration of relics is a visceral education: the veil between this world and the next is thin, at times transparent; it is made from delicate echoes of love: to look upon it is to look with devotion. Those bits of bone and hair were people that lived lives full of all the dilemmas and frustrations of every human life. And, during their time here, they sought only that Goodness and Love shown in the Gospel images that decorate each reliquary. They live on still, in eternity, praying for those still journeying on the pilgrim way. In many ways analysis is a misplaced response to such emotive and emotional objects.

Maybe it is not an accident these relics are no longer in Churches, but have migrated to the museums. More people certainly get to look and wonder.  As, WB Yeats says, 'The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper'. 

In order to seem as respectful as is possible, the exhibition aimed for an atmosphere of sanctity. So much so, that Jonathan Jones at the Guardian felt a key aspect of pilgrimage - the rough vulgarities of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales - had been missed out. I laughed when I read this. It is true - the exhibition has been designed not to offend practising Christians,  and I thank the British Museum for that. However, I have made many pilgrimages with different people, and can recall no adventure in which there were no scandals, laughs, drinks, jokes and general merriment - that is part of walking with others, and part of pilgrimage. I know no pilgrim who would say pilgrimage is all piety and prayer, or that prayer does not involve laughter! The comments on Jonathan's post rightly point out that the purpose of the exhibition was to show the craftsmanship of the reliquaries and explore the devotional practises associated with relics. As I have observed above, relics, reliquaries and pilgrimages to visit them are about love. Although I might be able to imagine an exhibition about marital love which looked only at how couples are portrayed in art, I would never imagine this illustrated all of married life!

Anyhow, final thought? I did not want to cast a cold eye on the life and death of the saints, their relics and the reliquaries crafted to display them. I wanted to cast a loving eye, an inquisitive and curious eye, and an eye of devotion. To that end, I agree with my sister Gemma, who wished there was more about the saints and and the lives their lived, why they did what they did, and how and why they died.

I will wear purple - in memory of Lydia

August 3rd is the feast of Lydia. She rates as one of my all time favourite saints, although not much is known about her. Just a short passage from Acts of the Apostles in fact. St. Paul, travelling on his journey's came to Philippi, which is now in Greece. I guess St. Paul and his crew must have looked quite a sight and a state when they arrived in town, what with all that sandal wearing itinerant life style. I am not sure there were that many hot showers to be had. I bet they were an icky, sticky, stinky mess. Anyhow, here's Lydia's story - told, as usual, from the male perspective of the scripture authors.

On the sabbath we went outside the city gate to the river, where we expected to find a place of prayer. We sat down and began to speak to the women who had gathered there. One of those listening was a woman named Lydia, a dealer in purple cloth from the city of Thyatira, who was a worshipper of God. The Lord opened her heart to respond to God's message. When she and the members of her household were baptised, she invited us to her home. "If you consider me a believer in the Lord," she said, 'Come and stay at my house." And she persuaded us. (Acts 16: 11-15)

Persuaded, did she? I am sure she had that team of preachers umming and ahhing for ages, (not). A woman who sold purple might have been quite wealthy. The colour was rare and associated with royalty. But, the passage does not say that she owned the cloth or the business. She might have been a common labourer, who dyed the material in her home. Either way, she offers hospitality to Paul and his companions. And, I bet they were a hungry, sweaty lot that needed a good bath and a big meal. Hospitality is THE virtue I think is most important. Just to have a knack of making people feel comfortable, predicting their needs and providing for them without fuss and nonsense. THIS is the essence of the Christian life for me. And I love that I can see this woman wearing purple. It reminds me of that well known and beautiful poem: Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple. 

Well, here's a warning for you guys. I already wear purple. And, for me, it is a symbol of the hospitality, goodness and service offered by Lydia to her guests. When I am old, I will still wear purple. And, I will definitely spend my money on brandy and satin candles, and say we have no cash for butter. I practise that sort of thing daily. My most sincere hope, however, is that I will still have the heart to offer every wanderer that comes my way that generous hospitality that feeds the heart and soul of both the host and the guest.

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple

Jenny Joseph

I will wear purple - In memory of Lydia

August 3rd is the feast of Lydia. She rates as one of my all time favourite saints, although not much is known about her. Just a short passage from Acts of the Apostles in fact. St. Paul, travelling on his journey's came to Philippi, which is now in Greece. I guess St. Paul and his crew must have looked quite a sight and a state when they arrived in town, what with all that sandal wearing itinerant life style. I am not sure there were that many hot showers to be had. I bet they were an icky, sticky, stinky mess. Anyhow, here's Lydia's story - told, as usual, from the male perspective of the scripture authors.

On the sabbath we went outside the city gate to the river, where we expected to find a place of prayer. We sat down and began to speak to the women who had gathered there. One of those listening was a woman named Lydia, a dealer in purple cloth from the city of Thyatira, who was a worshipper of God. The Lord opened her heart to respond to God's message. When she and the members of her household were baptised, she invited us to her home. "If you consider me a believer in the Lord," she said, 'Come and stay at my house." And she persuaded us. (Acts 16: 11-15)

Persuaded, did she? I am sure she had that team of preachers umming and ahhing for ages, (not). A woman who sold purple might have been quite wealthy. The colour was rare and associated with royalty. But, the passage does not say that she owned the cloth or the business. She might have been a common labourer, who dyed the material in her home. Either way, she offers hospitality to Paul and his companions. And, I bet they were a hungry, sweaty lot that needed a good bath and a big meal. Hospitality is THE virtue I think is most important. Just to have a knack of making people feel comfortable, predicting their needs and providing for them without fuss and nonsense. THIS is the essence of the Christian life for me. And I love that I can see this woman wearing purple. It reminds me of that well known and beautiful poem: Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple. 

Well, here's a warning for you guys. I already wear purple. And, for me, it is a symbol of the hospitality, goodness and service offered by Lydia to her guests. When I am old, I will still wear purple. And, I will definitely spend my money on brandy and satin candles, and say we have no cash for butter. I practise that sort of thing daily. My most sincere hope, however, is that I will still have the heart to offer every wanderer that comes my way that generous hospitality that feeds the heart and soul of both the host and the guest.

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple

Jenny Joseph